


a love that's meant for me

by antoineroussel



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, just a lil angst not much, merry chrysler!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antoineroussel/pseuds/antoineroussel
Summary: Brad is into him. Really into him. And because he can’t keep his mouth shut, all of his friends know it. He knows that Patrice wouldn’t end this nice friendship thing they have going if he said something about it, but Brad wouldn’t be able to take rejection from him, especially not with the other stresses and losses of the year. He’s fine with staying friends and never knowing for sure what Patrice would do if he told him. Maybe.





	a love that's meant for me

**Author's Note:**

> so.... here's ur christmas fluff, coming to u on christmas eve.
> 
> hope everyone's having a nice time this fine holiday afternoon, and hope u enjoy!!!

It shouldn’t be such a surprise that Patrice Bergeron is at a med intern’s Christmas party, but Brad has to admit that he wasn’t really thinking about it when he agreed to come. 

Torey asked him if he would want to go to the party, and he likes parties in general, as long as there’s a place for him to hide and play Candy Crush if he gets tired of socializing. It’s always weird to be at parties when you don’t know the host, but from what Torey tells him, the guy is pretty chill, most of the people there will be chill, and wi-fi is absolutely guaranteed. That sounded like a plan to Brad, who was  _ very  _ tightly-wound at this point in the semester, and just wanted to fuck off for a few days before he drove back home.

He can’t say that he wants to avoid Patrice; they study and do partnered work together all the time in a shared Gender, Race, and Medicine course. Considering the class is about fifteen people in total, it would just make sense to work with someone he knows. He met Patrice at the end of last year, when Pasta dragged him over to their frequent lunch spot. Brad was floored. He was wearing his sister’s joggers in front of the most beautiful human being possibly to ever exist, and that was sort of a bummer. Patrice didn’t seem to care what he was wearing and leaned over the table to hug him. It was a bro hug with a few solid back pats but still sort of familiar for someone who he just met. He was just really warm and smelled nice and Brad was slightly hungover and barely absorbed anything either of them said. Later Patrice would spot him on the first day of classes and plop down on the seat next to his, and would say that he was happy to see Brad again. By that point, the enchantment with his good looks had faded, so Brad was able to listen to Patrice and actually start getting to know him. Brad usually doesn’t become friends with people who are so cheerful, but Patrice’s pleasant disposition never seems to be forced, and he’s absolutely capable of being sarcastic like the rest of them. He’s a really good work partner and an even better person, always wanting to help people and being so casually affectionate with his friends.

Brad is into him. Really into him. And because he can’t keep his mouth shut, all of his friends know it. He knows that Patrice wouldn’t end this nice friendship thing they have going if he said something about it, but Brad wouldn’t be able to take rejection from him, especially not with the other stresses and losses of the year. He’s fine with staying friends and never knowing for sure what Patrice would do if he told him. Maybe.

It’s actually snowing on the night of the party, albeit lightly, so he grabs a heavy jacket before walking over. He does so bitterly, not wanting to cover up his nice burgundy sweater, but he figures he’ll just take it off as soon as he gets there. He even has new jeans. Brad can absolutely be classy when he wants to. 

The house has a glass door, and he spots Torey and a whole assault of string lights so he walks right in. It’s a cool place, with a big porch and everything. He’s hanging his coat up and admiring the entryway when he spots Patrice across the room, laughing with a few girls on the couch. He’s stunning, really. It’s not even a fair fight. He immediately heads for the kitchen where he saw his friends go, and realizes that there are more than a few people he knows. On his way, Brad gets stopped by a few classmates who, despite the fact that he’s constantly pissing them off, are somehow still fond of him at this point in the semester. Once he’s in the kitchen, he sees Torey, Pasta, and a few others standing by the counter.

He taps David abruptly. “Did you know?”

Just as his brows furrow and he begins to open his mouth, Seguin is popping up in front of him with a shot glass and clearly offering it. “Brad, I need your opinion. What do you think of this shit?”

Brad rolls his eyes, but takes it from him and downs it without hesitation. “Tastes like burnt sugar and bleach. I’d give it a seven out of ten, maybe eight and a half if it could kill me. Official statement. Final answer. Now why the fuck did nobody tell me Patrice would be here?”

“What Patrice?” Torey asks, pausing in his mutilation of a tube of cookie dough.

“ _ Bergeron.  _ Who else? I mean, I’m happy to see him, but fucking warn a guy.” Brad huffs. He really is fine, it’s not like he’ll combust if they’re in the same room, but God, he’s wearing this baggy cream-colored turtleneck  _ with the sleeves rolled up.  _ That shouldn’t even be allowed.

Pasta shrugs at him and pats his shoulder. “He got invite from someone, not me.”

Brad glares and grabs a chunk of cookie dough to chew on broodingly. He can just hide and keep to pleasantries if Patrice does notice him, but he won’t go over. He isn’t about to roll over like a dog. Five minutes of staring at him through the bar cutout, and Brad is walking over, defeated. Patrice sees him coming and whispers something to one girl on his right. She laughs a little and scoots away from him. Brad looks at the both of them, suspicious, and sighs dramatically just because he’s an asshole. “Can you believe it? All this for some weird dude’s birthday. Jesus must love capitalism.”

Patrice laughs at his lame joke and pats the now empty seat next to him. Oh. Brad sits, close to both Patrice and the nice girl. They’re usually not this close, across from each other at library desks and coffee shop tables. He must be sweating. “I’m glad you’re here. Matt said you were invited, so I was hoping you’d come.”

He assumes that Matt is the host, but he doesn’t know for sure. “Yeah, well I’m here just for you.” That comes out weird, but Patrice gives him a genuine smile, and Brad stares at him for way too long so he continues. “And to get some Christmas-themed fruity drink recipes.”

“Of course,” Patrice replies, and he stands up. The warmth of his thigh against Brad’s is immediately missed. “I’m gonna go see about those drinks, I’ll be right back.” As soon as he leaves, the two girls start chattering. Not directly at him, but they do include him in the conversation at some points, and he appreciates it if only so he doesn’t seem like a human sofa arm. Apparently, they’re Patrice’s friends from a medical program they share. They too are unfairly attractive compared to Brad; the trend is becoming a little concerning. It doesn’t take long for them to coax him into baking for the somewhat buzzed crowd of guests. He’s alright with that, especially since it seems Torey isn’t doing anything with the cookie dough tube besides giving himself salmonella. He’ll make brownies in a random dude’s kitchen if he so pleases.

Patrice finds him in the kitchen and pulls a chair from the dining table over to watch him find a recipe on his phone. “What kind of genius inspiration has struck you now?” He smiles. Brad wants to be in his lap.  _ Yikes.  _

“No inspiration. Just the pressure from women using me for my baked goods.” 

Patrice laughs at that and stands again. “Tell me when they’re done so I can get a corner piece before everyone demolishes them.” Brad agrees, and Patrice goes back to the counter- knowing him, probably to watch people and make sure no one’s passing out. He’s just a great guy like that. Brad, after a few minutes of debating, decides to find a vegan recipe because someone might be vegan, and it would be morally wrong to give them non-vegan shit while they’re drunk, probably. He doesn’t actually know, but that sounds like a legitimate concern to have. He gets another shot of the gross burnt sugar stuff, which turns out to be toasted marshmallow vodka, and mixes his ingredients with little to no interruption. People, for the most part, stay out of the kitchen. Patrice is still standing at the counter, but he’s quiet. It’s only when the brownies are in the oven that Torey, Tyler, Pasta, and a few other people come back in to make some drinks for themselves. The kitchen is spacious enough, but Brad’s getting a little warm from a combination of the oven, his sweater, and what little alcohol he’s had. He plans on walking back into the living room and almost runs straight into Patrice at the archway that leads to it.

“Funny meeting you here,” he says, cringing internally until Patrice grins at him. A group of people holler loudly as a girl wins an arm-wrestling match. The chiming Christmas music and soft jazz playing from somewhere in the hallway is way too classy for a party with so many stupid people, Brad thinks to himself.

“Where were you heading?”

Brad doesn’t really remember where he was heading. “I just thought I’d-”

“Oh  _ shit, _ ” Torey suddenly exclaims, gaping at them in amused wonder. “Oh my fucking god, dude, Brad, this is the end. Rest in pieces. Oh my god. You’re standing in the doorway. You’re fucked.”

Brad squints at him for several moments, trying to decipher even half of that, but Patrice taps his shoulder, smiling a little shyly. He points up. There’s a sprig of white berries and waxy leaves taped haphazardly to the ceiling above them. “You know what you have to do,” Tyler says solemnly, while Brad is still looking up and wishing he could reach high enough to pull it down and stomp on it. He’s had enough of vegetation betraying him, and right now he’s two seconds from a mental breakdown. He doesn’t even want to look at Patrice.

Somewhere across the room, David, bless his heart, is gesturing to his friends with a mock throat-slicing gesture, meaning ‘ _ retreat, retreat _ ’, because he knows that this is sort of a thing for Brad. The others are probably too drunk to realize that he may or may not be bursting into tears at any second. But it’s too late. At least fifteen people are watching. 

“Hey,” Patrice whispers, and Brad jerks his head back to him, back to looking at his stupid sympathetic beautiful face. “Can I- uh- can I?” Brad has an awful headache. All he can think about is kicking the host’s ass for even- even daring to mix his stupid Norse mythology kissing traditions into a clearly capitalism-based party-

“What?”

Patrice rolls his eyes. “I’m going to kiss you, and you’re fully free to stab me with your keys in front of all these people if you don’t like it.”

Somebody shouts as Patrice puts a hand at the small of his back. “ _ What? _ ” Brad asks again. He hears everything, but he’s not sure it’s registering in his brain. He nods anyway. Patrice pulls him in, and Brad at least has the mind to hold onto his shoulders, even though none of this makes sense, and he could be losing his goddamn mind. Patrice slots their lips together, easy, and cups Brad’s cheek in his hand, still cold from the glass he was holding. 

Brad is in a stupor for a few more seconds before it strikes him to kiss back. Not too passionately though, in case this is a joke. It’s Patrice who deepens it, and his lips are wet and sweet with the same sugary vodka they’ve both apparently been drinking. And well, Brad isn’t one to be outdone, so he conveniently forgets to be embarrassed and comes back just as fervently. When Patrice finally pulls back, it feels like it’s been half an hour, but he knows that less than half a minute has probably passed. A few people whistle and cheer, and suddenly everyone is going back to their drinks. Patrice brushes his knuckles down Brad’s chest. 

“You look nice in this sweater,” he says quietly, then goes back into the living room without giving Brad the chance to respond. As if he didn’t just ruin Brad’s life. Damn him. He completely forgets where he was going in the first place and goes to stand dejectedly by the oven until his brownies are done. He takes another shot of something spicy while his friends stare in actual astonishment.

Tyler pats his shoulder. “Hey, we didn’t mean to, like, pressure you, but isn’t this sort of what you wanted? You, uh, look really bummed out.” He’s genuine enough in his concern.

Brad sighs heavily. “First of all, it doesn’t matter if you didn’t mean to. You’re both assholes, and I hate you. Second, it doesn’t matter if this was what I wanted because it’s clear to me that this party is somewhere outside of fucking reality, and that we’re going to wake up and never talk about this ever again.” Tyler makes a face that suggests he’s too far gone to process that amount of words. “You know what? Never mind. I’m just tired of kissing people who don’t want me.”

“Brad,” Torey says, scolded and maybe a little sad, but he doesn’t argue because he knows it’s true

“Fuck off,” Brad replies without any heat. He was stupid to think that he could end the shitshow that was this semester on a good note. It seemed like Patrice was sober, but with his luck, he somehow doubts it. Even if he was, the chance that it was more than just for show is slim. Pasta is nowhere to be found, and the others heed his wish, leaving him alone for the most part.

He’s starting to think that nobody wants him.

The alarm on his phone going off disturbs his sulking, and he checks to see that the brownies are done. Brad cuts them up and saves one of the corner pieces on a napkin. When Torey comes back in to get a beer, he offers a brownie as a peace treaty. “As much as I don’t want to say this, could you call Patrice in here? I told him I’d get him a corner piece, so…”

Torey instantly cringes and at first, Brad thinks it’s because of what  _ he  _ said, and then Torey tells him, “I didn’t see him out there.”

“Oh.” Brad blinks a few times. “He left?” He’s going to fucking cry at a Christmas party. This is what his life has come to.

“Well, I don’t know, I think if he- well, he would have said goodbye to you, at least, I think. He wouldn’t- aw, Brad, dude, we’re really sorry. I’m sure he wouldn’t leave without telling you, okay? He has to be-” Torey, even at his most serious, doesn’t ever look this worried. Definitely not when he’s toasty. He must know that he’s fucked up on an almost irredeemably large scale. If Patrice left that quickly, he’s probably never talking to Brad again, and that’s not even something Brad had thought to worry about.

“It’s okay, Torey,” he says quietly, even though he’s chewing the inside of his cheek raw. Being embarrassed about a crush is one thing; losing a friend completely is another.

“We- we’ll fix it, I promise.”

Right then, one of the girls he was sitting next to- Alice- comes in and notices him standing there, miserable. Torey makes himself scarce when she comes over, and Alice pats his forehead sympathetically. Girls are so nice. “What’s wrong?” He, predictably, spills his guts and tells her everything, thinking that by now, he can probably face no greater humiliation. She listens to the whole thing and smiles a little. “I want you to know that he didn’t leave, he just went outside to talk to someone.” He nearly cries in relief but keeps to a grateful nod as Alice pours him a cup of hot chocolate. “And I think that you should ask him what he wants. You know Patrice. He’d understand.” Brad thanks her quietly as she goes back to her seat in the living room. He feels a lot better with a warm mug in hand and the knowledge that Patrice hasn’t hung him out to dry. And with the reminder that nice girls would never abandon his stupid ass.

After a few minutes of contemplation, he gets out of the kitchen just in time to see Patrice and David walk back into the house. Maybe Pasta was the one he went out to talk to. Patrice finds him almost immediately and gestures for him to come sit by the fireplace. Brad is hesitant walking over, but he eventually makes it to Patrice’s side on the couch. Brad offers him the brownie wrapped in a festive napkin, and he gives this slow smile when he sees that it’s a corner piece. Brad is starting to regret being born, even more so when Patrice wraps one arm around his shoulders. The closeness isn’t as overwhelming as it usually is, just because he’s still blanketed by relief that Patrice is still here at all. His expression must convey that, because Patrice frowns for just a second before the smile comes back.

“This thing probably hasn’t been lit in years,” he says suddenly, gesturing to the hearth.

Brad tries to think of anything normal to say. “It does look pretty ancient. Thank god for colonial insulation.” Patrice laughs and squeezes his arm a little, making his way into a conversation with a few other pre-med students about one of their professors or something. Some of them eye him briefly, but they never try to talk to him like the other girls did. Brad, as is per usual when he meets Patrice’s other friends, feels completely out of place and knows that anything he could possibly interject with would sound stupid. It’s alright. He isn’t good at being quiet, but he is capable of it. The whole night has been weird, so this isn’t too out of the ordinary. 

Torey and Tyler both eventually come to realize that Patrice hasn’t left, and they’re probably as relieved as Brad is, which is saying a lot. He’s still somewhat downtrodden, because Patrice might as well have left if he was just planning on making small talk. He tells himself that it could be worse, but his brain is playing hard to convince. 

“Hey, can you come out front with me for a minute?” Patrice asks suddenly, sounding almost nervous, and Brad has really never been so confused in his life, but he nods anyway because it’s Patrice and he has no impulse control. Pasta stares at them blankly from the couch as they walk out the door. He grabs his jacket on the way out, listening as the conversation continues without them. Patrice is holding his arm gently, guiding him toward his car. “First, I just want to say that I’m sorry for doing something like that with people watching. I know you have anxiety about that, and I should have thought before putting you on the spot in front of everyone.”

Brad doesn’t even know how to reply, because he’s honestly touched that Patrice retains so much of what he says. “It’s okay, I’m being pretty stupid about it. I’m lucky you’ll even be seen with me.” He has no idea what happened to his brain-to-mouth filter, but that’s the truth. It apparently isn’t the right answer though, as Patrice’s expression becomes almost disgusted for a moment. 

“I don’t think that,” he says, serious without anger, and there’s a long pause where Brad considers those words for a while. “I want you to be my friend for a long time, okay?” Friend. By this point in the night, he’s surprised that he still has friends, so that’s okay. Brad nods agreeably. They can be friends. “But you should know that I didn’t kiss you for show. I thought it was obvious, but David told me that I should at least say it for you. He’s right, you deserve that. You should know that I meant it.”

Brad couldn’t possibly respond to that in a productive manner. He stares at Patrice’s chest, shy, and he’s ashamed of himself. He’s never done anything shyly. “No one means it.”

“I do,” he insists. “I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t want to put any more stress on you.” Brad doesn’t doubt his sincerity, especially when he made his misery pretty obvious throughout the year. Patrice always comforted him, never added to his stress, but he’s right. Knowing wouldn’t have helped Brad at all. Even now he’s worried about being good enough for Patrice, and it’s the night before a two week break. “And I’m sorry for acting weird inside. I never want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s alright.” Patrice can’t help it that his friends are so out of Brad’s league and obviously don’t want to talk to him. “You never do. I’m just kind of a fucking mess.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that Patrice leans in to kiss him after that, but he’s caught off guard. “You’re not a mess,” he murmurs soothingly, and honestly, Brad would agree to anything he said in that voice. Patrice has to duck a little to mouth under his jawline, but it’s easy enough to accomodate. Brad thinks he might die. Patrice walks them both off the curb so Brad’s back is against the car door, and pulls away. “I have something for you, if you want it.” 

Brad blinks. “Really?” He was planning on bringing some of his friends, including Patrice, out to dinner some time before or after the break, but he didn’t think to give any tangible gifts (aside from possibly booze.) 

“That’s why I hoped that you’d be here.” Patrice opens the drivers seat door and reaches over the console to pull out an unwrapped cardboard box. It has a little red ribbon around it, and Brad has to bite down the urge to laugh at how much time Patrice probably took to place it so meticulously. He’s always like that. Brad takes the box from him- it’s small and light enough to hold in one arm, but it’s big enough to be confusing- and slowly pulls the ribbon loose. Patrice gives him a stupid smug smile and glances between him and the box.

“Shut up,” Brad says, but he probably looks just as stupid, struggling to take the lid off with one hand. There’s a plush red bundle inside, what he recognizes as a blanket, and a little note in Patrice’s familiar scrawl. _You said this is what you wanted for Christmas,_ it says. Patrice must have put this together a while back, because even Brad can’t remember what he said. He opens the blanket up to find a few boxes of cherry cordials, and finally recalls saying (sarcastically) that he wanted to spend Christmas pretending to be a rich person, lounging in an L.L. Bean blanket in front of a fireplace and drinking the cherry liqueur out of cordials. Patrice had laughed and told him that anything was possible. Brad gets a little warm thinking that Patrice would remember something like that. It’s overwhelmingly sweet. “My parents’ house doesn’t have a fireplace,” he teases, but he’s smiling enough that it’s clear he doesn’t really care.

Patrice’s lip quirks, and his mouth opens for a moment with nothing coming out. “Mine does,” he says finally. Brad’s face probably goes through a few different phases as he slowly realizes what he’s being told. “If you want to come home with me for the break.”

“I’ll call my mom to let her know.” Brad doesn’t hesitate. He can always visit his parents at spring break, and they’d understand that this isn’t something he can pass up. Patrice grins, pulling him in for another kiss. They walk back into the house, Brad smiling stupidly with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

Pasta gives him a questioning look from across the room, and he returns a thumbs-up. A few of Patrice’s friends look at each other as they move back to the couch, and almost as soon as Brad sits down, someone comes to presumably whisk Patrice away. Now that he knows what’s going on, he’s a lot less mad about that prospect. Instead, the guy looks over at him. “I knew he would do something sappy like this,” he says, and since none of them have ever addressed him before, Brad assumes he’s talking to himself and just smiles. “You have to know that he talks about you all the time. If he didn’t tell you how  _ in love  _ he is, then we would have, so it was better if we just didn’t say anything. Hopefully now he won’t glare every time one of us even breathes in your direction.”

Brad laughs, surprised. “And here I was thinking that pre-meds were just assholes.”

“No, you’re still right about that one,” Patrice interjects, nudging his friend over to sit between him and Brad. The guy rolls his eyes. “But some of us are alright, I guess.” He gently kisses Brad’s neck, and some of his friends across from them coo like they’re watching kittens. Tyler’s expression goes through the five stages of grief before he actually realizes that they did something good.

“I guess,” Brad agrees, and he secretly admits to himself that the semester wasn’t a  _ total  _ waste of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> also just assume in every single thing i write brad is trans like that's just???? me i guess
> 
> merry crisis


End file.
